


If You've Seen True Light

by dear_monday



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Deities, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dear_monday/pseuds/dear_monday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey is, first, last and forever, what they want him to be. He can't help it, it's in his blueprint. The mortals wrought him from nothingness with the power of their belief in him, and he is what they made him. They brought him to life and circumstances pinned the title of Hades on him, and so it goes. Ray, meanwhile, is the Torchbearer, tasked with leading souls back up to the world of the living, light and life incarnate. And when he crosses the river into the underworld, he sets something in motion that neither of them can escape. (tw: discussion of death, but no actual character death.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You've Seen True Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hulubululu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulubululu/gifts).



> While this story turned out much darker and sadder than I originally intended it to be (sorry, Lou!), I think I at least captured the kind of atmosphere I was aiming for. I listened to a lot of Cocorosie and Joanna Newsom while I was writing this, [Only Skin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UUe3Q54qFg) and [Cosmia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5WEuQUw8wY) in particular, because that was what I wanted - that sense of something bittersweet and almost familiar, but also deeply, profoundly strange. Lou, as ever, is a phenomenally talented artist and an all-round wonderful human being, and I'm so happy to have been part of the vision she had for this story. I hope I've done it justice.

**OCTOBER**  
**Mikey**

 

Mikey is, first, last and forever, what they want him to be. He can't help it, it's in his design. The mortals wrought him from nothingness with the power of their belief in him, and he is what they made of him. They brought him to life and circumstances pinned the title of Hades on him, and so it goes.

Mikey is the one who meets the dead at the riverbank, where the water meets the sand. He's the one who talks to them when they come to him alone and frightened and angry, and he does his best to ease their fears. Dying isn't so bad, really.

He knows what the mortals think about the underworld, and he's more than happy for them to continue to be wrong about it. There are no pits of seething fire, no terrible demons, no bloody tortures. It's mostly just a vast no man's land, flat and featureless, neither hot nor cold. He's also more than happy for the mortals to believe that he's a remorseless, unfeeling specter of death. He suspects they'd argue back more if they thought he was just a creature not so different from them, trying to do his job.

He's waiting on the riverbank for the new arrivals. They should be here any minute now. He's tired – he's always tired these days, stretched too thin – but he puts it aside. They'll be scared and confused, and they'll need him. He's got work to do.

  


 

**NOVEMBER**  
**Ray**

 

Ray looks out across the river, waiting for the ferryman. There are a handful of souls who were turned away at the gates, and Ray is here to lead them home. The river is deep and wide, the opposite bank hidden in shadow. Ray wonders, not for the first time, exactly what's on the other side. The riverbank, the very edge of the underworld, is as far as he goes.  
  
The river looks different to every soul. These days, its most common form is an eight-lane highway where the ferryman beckons dead men into his rusted pickup truck. Sometimes it's railway tracks, sometimes a deep, echoing canyon, a rocky path, a treacherous swamp - but to Ray, it has always been a vast sweep of silken water, fathomless and alive with strange things moving beneath the surface.  
  
He supposes he's just old-fashioned.  
  
He peers into the darkness, sees the dim light of a lantern bobbing towards him. As he watches, the shape of the small boat emerges from the gloom as if formed of the shadows themselves.  
  
"Gerard," he says, as soon as the ferryman is within earshot. Now the boat is nearly at the bank, he can see its other passengers: three of them, a woman and two children, as pale and ghostly as smoke.  
  
"Ray." Gerard flashes him a weary half-smile. Ray knows that crossing the river is no small thing, and that it costs even Gerard something to do it.  
  
"Good crossing?"  
  
Gerard shrugs. "Fine. How are things upstairs?"  
  
"Beautiful," Ray says happily. "The leaves are all down now. We had our first frost two weeks ago. Oh, and a thunderstorm." He frowns slightly. "A really bad one. Zeus and Hera were fighting again."  
  
Gerard chuckles. "Business as usual, then," he says, and Ray can't disagree.  
  
The hull of the boat settles into the dark sand of the bank and Gerard climbs down to help the three lost souls out, ankle-deep in the black water. Ray waits patiently, then, once they're standing, shivering, on the sand, Ray lights his torch. They don't look frightened, but they don't look happy to be leaving, either. Ray recognizes the side effects of too much time spent in this place. They'll feel better as soon as they're back on mortal soil.  
  
"I'm here to take you home," he says, kindly, paying no mind to their blank faces. He knows they're listening, it's just the underworld's way of disconnecting people from their own thoughts. "It's a bit of a walk, but if you stay with me we'll have you back in no time." The oldest child nods, a slow, awkward motion as if he's already forgotten how his own body fits together, and Ray smiles. He glances over their heads at Gerard, already stepping back into the boat. "Goodbye, Gerard," he says, and Gerard gives him a quick wave before punting the boat back out onto the river.  
  
Ray returns his attention to his charges. "Ready?" he says, and the child nods again. That's good enough for Ray. "Good. Follow me."  
  
They fall into line behind him, their steps slow and shuffling, and he leads them back towards the light.

 

 

 

**DECEMBER**  
**Mikey**

 

Mikey is sitting on the riverbank, watching the water. He finds it soothing, just watching the water run. It hasn't been an easy day. He wishes for oblivion, some way of disconnecting his mind and his body.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Gerard's voice behind him makes Mikey look around. He manages a small, tired smile. "Hello."  
  
Gerard climbs out of his little boat and comes to sit next to Mikey, paying no attention to the dark water lapping hungrily at his ankles. He bumps his shoulder against Mikey's affectionately. "You're quiet. Was it bad today?"  
  
Mikey nods, wearily. "Children," he says, by way of explanation. He shakes his head. "I know it shouldn't get to me, but..." he trails off, shaking his head.  
  
Gerard's smile crumples. Mikey wishes he hadn't said anything, he knows Gerard feels things even more deeply than he does. Mikey has learnt the value of being hard and unfeeling when he has to, but it isn't something that comes naturally to Gerard.  
  
Hades a dirty job, but someone has to do it.  
  
"I hear there's a new god," Gerard says. "Up in the mortal world. The torchbearer told me."  
  
"Oh?" Mikey tries to sound interested. As keen as he is to talk about something (anything) other than himself, he normally tries to stay out of his fellow immortals' affairs. He maintains the absolute bare minimum of polite interest, but that's it.  
  
"Mm." Gerard gives Mikey a sidelong look that Mikey pretends not to notice. "They say he's headed down here. That he's supposed to replace one of us."  
  
Mikey doesn't get his hopes up. He never does, these days. It wouldn't be the first time a new god had been willed into being by the mortals only to crumble away before they were even ready to take on a position. Perhaps the new one really is fated to take the reins from one of them, perhaps not. It could be hundreds of years before they know for sure.  
  
"That'd be nice," he says, in a carefully neutral voice. He knows Gerard is only trying to cheer him up and he appreciates it, he does.  
  
They sit in easy silence for a little while, then Gerard gets to his feet. He doesn't trouble to brush the fine black sand from his clothes.  
  
"You're leaving?" Mikey says, looking up at him.  
  
"Work to do," he says. He squeezes Mikey's shoulder. "Not too much longer," he says, like he has every single day since Mikey took the job.  
  
Mikey hopes so, but he doesn't really believe it.

 

 

 

**JANUARY**  
**Ray**

  

Ray's curiosity gets the best of him eventually, as it always does.   
  
Death is not what Ray was expecting. His face is pale and drawn, angular, with sharp features and deep, dark eyes. Shadows seem to cling to him, trailing in his wake when he moves.  
  
"Torchbearer," he says, his voice low, softer than a funeral shroud. "Is there something wrong?"  
  
"Wrong?" Ray repeats. He knows he's staring. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. Like Ray, Hades is a creature of the mortals' imaginations, born of their fear and faith and their adoration. The world is a sadder place than it used to be, Ray thinks, for them to have made death so beautiful. He gathers himself. "No, no," he says. "Nothing's wrong."  
  
"There's no one down here who shouldn't be," says Hades. "I'm sure. Ask the Fates." His eyes are slightly narrowed, his chin tilted up defiantly. He's smaller than Ray, long-limbed and graceful, but slight.  
  
"Oh no," Ray says, quickly. He can feel the color rising in his cheeks. "I'm not here on business."  
  
"Oh." Hades relaxes visibly, his expression softening. "Sorry."  
  
"Don't be," Ray says. "I was... curious."  
  
"Curious? What about?"  
  
"About this place," says Ray. _About you_ , he thinks.  
  
"But you're here all the time."  
  
"Not _here_. I don't even cross the river. I wanted to know what was on the other side."  
  
Hades looks at him for a long moment, apparently caught off guard. Ray smiles, and to his surprise, sees the expression reflected on Hades' face.  
  
"I--call me Mikey," he says. "Only the mortals call me Hades."  
  
"Ray," says Ray.  
  
Mikey smiles again, a small, tentative smile that sits uneasily on his drawn, pale face, as if he's out of practice. Ray supposes that he would be. The position of Hades is lonely and difficult, it probably doesn't offer many opportunities for smiling.  
  
"Are those flowers in your hair?" Mikey says, looking closely at Ray.  
  
Ray reaches up to touch them, almost unconsciously. "Asphodel," he says. "I didn't... they just started growing on their own. Why?"  
  
"I like them," Mikey says. He tries another smile, and this time it seems to come more easily. "I haven't seen flowers in a long time."  
  
Ray doesn't imagine that flowers are too common in the underworld either, with its barren ground and sunless skies. Some of the dead come with flowers in their hands, but the ferryman doesn't allow any belongings to cross the river with their owners  
  
"Walk with me?" says Mikey, and Ray falls into step beside him. They walk in silence for a minute, and it isn't as uncomfortable as Ray somehow feels it should be. They make their way along the riverbank, leaving footsteps in the dark sand.  
  
"Can I ask you something?" says Ray cautiously. When Mikey nods, he says, "The river. What do you see?" The river exerts a strange pull on people, like gravity, like love, and Ray is suddenly desperately curious to know what it looks like to the one person who knows it better than almost any other.  
  
Mikey doesn't answer for long moment. "Do you know," he says, quietly, "You're the first person who's ever asked me that."  
  
"Really?" Ray is surprised. The ever-changing nature of the river is as strange and as beautiful as anything else in this world of shadows. He's surprised Mikey has never been asked what he sees in it before.  
  
"Mm." Mikey hesitates before he speaks again. "I see a river," he says, eventually, kneeling down and dipping his fingers below the cool, glassy surface. "Just a river. Deep and dark. And I see things moving in it, sometimes. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Oh," says Ray. "No reason." He glances out across the river, towards the mortal world. "I should be getting back. I'm sure you're busy."  
  
"No," says Mikey quickly. "I mean, yes. But--you could come back, sometime."  
  
"I will," Ray says, surprised to find that he means it. "And you should come up. How long has it been since you saw the mortal world?"  
  
"Not since I took the job," Mikey says, sadly, and Ray stops.  
  
"Really?" He knows as soon as the word is out of his mouth that he shouldn't have said it, that it was rude and presumptuous, but it's too late.  
  
"Really," says Mikey coolly. His face is blank again, his eyes as cold and dark as the river. "Not all of us have time for day trips, Torchbearer."  
  
Ray opens his mouth, then closes it again, his face hot with embarrassment. "Sorry," he mumbles, unable to meet Mikey's eyes. "I didn't think. I shouldn't have... I'll go. Should we call the ferryman?" Ray says, looking down at the glassy water. He knows that the pale shapes that move restlessly below the surface are the least of the things to fear in this river.  
  
Mikey laughs a short, bark-like laugh that sounds even rustier than his smile. "No need to bother him," he says. "Give me your hand."  
  
Cautiously, Ray does as he's told. Mikey's hands are long-fingered, as cold as the grave, but he's sure he feels Mikey shiver slightly when their fingertips brush together. Mikey steps forward, letting the black water lap at his feet, and looks back over his shoulder at Ray.  
  
"It won't take you while you're with me," he says. "I promise."  
  
Ray takes a step and draws a sharp, startled breath. It's cold, so cold, seeping through his skin and down into his very bones. He forces himself to take another step forwards and grits his teeth as the biting cold rises up over his ankles. He can feel the little eddies and currents tugging at him, like wolves tearing at the carcass of a deer.  
  
"The first time is the worst," says Mikey, not unkindly, his hand still in Ray's as he strides deeper into the freezing water. Ray grits his teeth. The water is up to his knees now, enveloping him and slowing his pulse to a sluggish thud-thud in his ears as a chilly lethargy settles over him. He's so tired. It would be so easy to let go of Mikey's hand and let the water carry him away.  
  
"It wouldn't," Mikey says softly in his ear, and Ray starts. He isn't sure whether he spoke aloud or if Mikey has seen this play out enough times to know what he was thinking. "It's just the river, that's what it wants you to think. It's here to stop the damned escaping."  
  
"Do people ever try?" Ray asks, feeling a little thrill of horror at the idea.  
  
"Oh, yes," says Mikey sadly, but he doesn't elaborate and Ray doesn't push.  
  
The silty bottom of the river drops away sharply, and before long it's wrapped around Ray's hips, his chest, his shoulders. It keeps rising, all the way up to his chin, and he hesitates.  
  
"Mikey," he says, tipping his head back and breathing deeply.  
  
"Trust me," Mikey says, and, to Ray's surprise, he does. He draws one last breath, still holding tightly to Mikey's hand, and sinks down into the water.  
  
For a moment, it feels just the same, the chill of death pressing in on all times, then he hears it. It's a song, ringing faintly in his ears, a song like nothing he's ever heard before. It wants him to let go of Mikey's hand and just let himself drift away, surrender himself to the current and the cold. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the flowers in his hair being swept away, its faded petals fluttering in the dark water. Numbness starts to creep up his fingers, but he kicks his feet and pushes through the darkness. He focuses on Mikey just ahead of him, ghostly pale, almost luminous in the gloom.  
  
It seems to last both forever and no time at all. Moments - or eons - later, Ray's feet brush the ground and his head breaks the surface. He feels better immediately, the grip of the cold loosening with every step he takes towards the opposite bank. Mikey doesn't let go of his hand, leading Ray to the shore.  
  
The instant Ray has stepped free of the dark water, it's as if they've crossed nothing more than a line drawn in the dirt. He's warm and dry again, the chill lethargy dissolving as quickly as it came. He inhales sharply, startled and wrong-footed.  
  
Beside him, Mikey smiles - really smiles for the first time, showing a flash of pale teeth in the dark. "Well done," he says.  
  
Ray isn't sure what he's being congratulated for. "Thank you," he says anyway. He shivers. The cold may be gone, but its memory clings to him like a lover. He won't be sorry to go back to the sun. He wants nothing more than to find a quiet field and stretch out on the ground, let the light suffuse him and dispel the lingering shivers. He thinks of Mikey, as good as chained to this bleak, lifeless place, and he feels a faint pang.  
  
"I should go," he says. "But I'll come back."  
  
Mikey looks a little taken aback. "You don't have to," he says, but he sounds pleased. Ray doesn't suppose he gets many social calls.  
  
"I know," Ray says, and he offers Mikey a smile. Tentatively, Mikey returns it, and Ray turns and starts to walk back towards the mortal world. The faint warmth of Mikey's smile carries him all the way home. 

 

 

 

**FEBRUARY**  
**Mikey**

  

Mikey can't see the winter in the world above, but from the gaunt faces of the crowds of the dead fetching up on his shores, he knows it must be bad. Despite the hard winter, Ray has lodged himself in Mikey's head like a seed in the earth, putting down roots and growing. Lately, Mikey has found himself lingering over his faint memories of the world above. He's spent so long trying not to think about it that the first time it slips into his head unbidden feels like a sharp slap. It feels guilty, forbidden.  
  
Gerard knows, of course, because Gerard always knows. They've spent far too much time in each other's heads to keep many secrets.  
  
"You like him," Gerard says, and it isn't a question. Mikey hesitates, then nods once. He does, so much that he aches with it.  
  
"He makes me smile," Mikey says quietly. He knows it doesn't sound like much, but it matters. They're sitting on the riverbank, watching the slow, implacable flow of the dark water, and Mikey stares fixedly into it so that he doesn't have to meet his brother's eyes.  
  
Gerard laughs. "Good," he says. "Someone has to."  
  
Mikey looks at him then, in disbelief. "That's all you're going to say?"  
  
Gerard shrugs. "Yes. He's good for you. I know you think--" he stops, frowning, searching for the words. "You take this seriously," he says. "Hades, I mean. And that's... that's good. Everyone knows that. But it doesn't mean you're not allowed to live, you know? You should go up and visit him."   
  
"I can't," says Mikey automatically. He remembers Ray's face vividly, dark eyes and wild hair and that full, wide mouth. He looked so out of place, so deeply, profoundly strange, that it drove the dry, stale air from Mikey's lungs. Ray is the worst thing that has happened to him in a long time. Ray makes him remember things he'd worked very hard to forget. Ray is a tiny piece of a world that is no longer Mikey's home, and that's just the way it is. Gods, men, they're all the same, always wanting things they can't have. He picks up a handful of rough, dark sand and watches it run through his fingers. "You know I can't."  
  
Gerard eyes him shrewdly. "I think you could," he says, "And I think you know that."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mikey snaps. He opens his hand and the rest of the sand spills out.  
  
"You could," Gerard repeats, calmly. "I could hold things down around here until you get back. I always said I would, if you needed a break."  
  
Mikey hesitates. It's true that it was one of the terms of their deal, but not one Mikey had ever thought to act on. "I shouldn't," he says.  
  
"See?" Gerard says. "It's not that you can't, it's that you won't."  
  
"Fine," says Mikey. His own voice sounds hard and cold in his ears and he sees Gerard flinch slightly, realizing that he's crossed some invisible line. "Yes, I could. But I'd rather not be reminded, alright?"  
  
Gerard goes very quiet. "Sorry," he says, in a voice barely louder than a whisper.  
  
"No, no." Mikey waves the apology away, annoyed with himself. Gerard was only trying to help. Gerard has only ever wanted Mikey to be happy, even though his previous efforts in that direction almost killed him. "I shouldn't have..." Mikey starts, and shakes his head. "I knew what I was getting myself into. It isn't your fault."  
  
"One day," Gerard says gently.  
  
"One day," agrees Mikey, but he doesn't believe it.

 

 

  

**MARCH**  
**Ray**

 

At first, it's as though nothing has changed. Ray makes his occasional trips down to the underworld, and each time he returns with a few souls who were taken before their time. He's diligent and careful, and he doesn't make mistakes.  
  
The first time Ray catches himself lingering on the riverbank after the ferryman has vanished into the shadows, he thinks nothing of it.  
  
He continues to think nothing of it when he finds himself asking one of the fates - when they share their minds and bodies so completely it hardly matters which - about the current Hades. She tells him that he took the position under strange, sad circumstances, then her mouth snaps shut like a trap and she refuses to tell him another thing.  
  
It's still nothing when he tries a little subtle digging with Zeus, but the only answer he gets is that wide smile too full of teeth that always makes his skin crawl. Ray knew him long before he was Zeus; the power didn't fix the broken parts of him and now there are natural disasters when he cries. In hindsight, Ray should have known better than to ask Zeus, but somehow, after that, it isn't nothing anymore. It's an idle curiosity, that's all. Just something to pass the time.  
  
But that doesn't explain why he wants so badly to go back.

 

 

 

**APRIL**  
**Mikey**

 

Mikey changes his mind.  
  
There's more to it than that, of course, how Gerard spends weeks trying to persuade him, how his resolution flickers in and out of being like summer lightning, but in the end, it doesn't matter. What matters is that suddenly, Mikey doesn't care anymore. He's sick of it all. He's sick of himself, of his constant indecision and the worry that claws at him whenever he thinks about it.   
  
Damn it, he thinks, wildly, as he strides towards the river. Damn it all. If he's found, if something goes wrong in his absence - well. He's already in hell. It's not as if they can send him anywhere worse. The exhilaration fluttering in his chest is new and unfamiliar, a feeling he hadn't even known he was capable of.  
  
Gerard always knows when Mikey is nearby, and he's there when Mikey reaches the riverbank.  
  
"I'm going," Mikey says, cutting Gerard off before he can say a word. "I want to see it again. Will you take me across, or do I have to swim?"  
  
Not that he needs Gerard - this is the underworld, Mikey's domain, and he can come and go as he pleases. He thinks he's earned that privilege, at least. But it's easier, with Gerard's help. Gerard's smile unfolds across his face, and he pushes the boat up onto the bank so Mikey can step in.

 

*

 

When Mikey stumbles through the space between the worlds, he finds himself in a graveyard. Graveyards are easy. The dead things buried in the earth call to him, echoes of the souls they once held still lingering. It made him uneasy at first, but he has learnt to gather death around himself like a cloak, and he knows he wears it well.  
  
He draws a deep, slow breath. He can smell wet moss and the sweetness of things unseen quietly rotting, the heavy, overpowering perfume of orchids, the sharpness of red clay and the tang of brackish water. It strikes him dumb. The mortal world, in all its imperfection and its mess, is vaster and more beautiful than he remembers, painted in colors that hurt his eyes. Darkness is falling, all syrupy sunlight and strange, slender shadows. He inhales deeply, allowing the air to saturate his senses. After the dead air of the underworld it's almost too much. He looks around, his heart kicking, eyes shining.  
  
He's never regretted his choice, and he tries not to think about what would have happened if things had played out differently, but he's missed this.  
  
He turns slowly on the spot, struck dumb by it all. The breeze whispers against his skin, the sweetly-scented air rich and soft in his lungs. He wants to disappear into it, become part of the land and the ever-changing riot of life it sustains. On one side of the graveyard, the grass slopes gently down towards a slow-moving stream.  
  
"Mikey!"  
  
He turns sharply. He knows that voice. Ray is there, his smile wide and bright in the half-dark.  
  
"You're here," Ray says. He doesn't ask why or how, just murmurs, "You're here," as if that's enough for him. Mikey thinks he can see his own wonder reflected on Ray's face, then dismisses the idea.  
  
"I am," says Mikey. "I was... persuaded. How did you know I'd be here?"  
  
Ray looks genuinely puzzled. "I didn't," he says. "I just felt - drawn. So I came, and here you are."  
  
"Here I am," Mikey agrees. Ray comes to stand beside him, for a long moment, there's silence.  
  
"What do you think?" Ray says, eventually. "Is it as good as you remember?"  
  
"Better," Mikey says. He sees now that his memories were faded, threadbare things, worn thin by the passing of the years. There are flowers in Ray's hair again, he realizes. He looks like summer incarnate, almost luminous in the half-light.  
  
"My turn to show you around," Ray says. "Let's walk."  
  
He sets off and Mikey follows in his wake. He isn't walking fast but Mikey lags behind, drinking it all in. He feels like a starving man sat before a feast. Perhaps he's been starving all along. They don't talk much, exchanging the odd word here and there, but Ray's company feels strangely worn-in and comfortable already. Ray loves this place, that much is obvious, and Mikey feels young and sheltered next to him. Ray, who knows this world in all its splendor and its secret places, and yet still deigns to pass the time with Mikey.  
  
They keep walking, and before long, they reach a little stand of trees, all heavy with fruit.  
  
"Here." Ray pulls a peach down from the branches of a tree and passes it to Mikey. "How long has it been since you ate?"  
  
Mikey half-smiles, sheepish and embarrassed for reasons he doesn't entirely understand. He cups the peach in his hands. It's heavy, still warm from the heat of the day, its skin soft and sweet-smelling. He sinks his teeth into it and there's an instant of dizzying sweetness before he tastes the rot. It's spoiled, its slick, corrupt taste clinging to his tongue and his teeth. He spits it out, and Ray laughs.  
  
"Sorry," says Ray. He picks another one and offers it to Mikey. "Try this one."  
  
Mikey takes a cautious bite, and this time, it's perfect. No food has passed his lips in longer than he can remember and it's overwhelming. It tastes like months upon months of distilled sunshine, concentrated in something the size of his fist. The juice runs down his chin, sticky-sweet, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Ray is watching him, he realizes, and he looks away, self-conscious. Ray takes a slow step towards him and his eyes are dark and Mikey is being torn in two, caught between what he is and what he wants to be.  
  
"I wish you could stay," Ray says quietly.  
  
"Me too." Mikey's voice sounds soft and guilty in his own ears. It's almost as if it wasn't true until he said it aloud.  
  
Ray moves closer still, looking at Mikey as if Mikey is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and it's Mikey who closes the space between them and ghosts his mouth over Ray's. Mikey pulls away just in time to see Ray's eyes flutter open, see a smile forming on his face like clouds on the horizon, and it's just—too much. It isn't fair.  
  
"I'm sorry," Mikey chokes out, and finds that he can't meet Ray's eyes. "I shouldn't have – I'll go."  
  
And he slips back into the in-between space that divides the two worlds, Ray's voice ringing in his ears, Ray's hands reaching out to him, but then he's gone and Ray doesn't follow.

 

 

 

**MAY**  
**Ray**

 

Life and death tick on, hand in hand. No mistakes are made, no one goes to the underworld but those who have been called. Mikey stays buried in the underworld, far away from warm nights and clear skies, and gods and men go about their business. Summer deepens and Ray wanders the earth alone and miserable, wondering if he's ruined things for good.

 

 

 

**JUNE**  
**Mikey**

 

"You came back," Ray says, his eyes shining, and Mikey's heart aches. Ray looks so happy to see him. No one is ever happy to see him, mortal or god, no matter how badly they think they want to. Ray is uncomplicated and uncorrupted and _good_ , and Mikey hopes he won't ruin this.  
  
"I was always going to come back," he says, and Ray's smile broadens. The sun is gone, but Ray's skin is golden-brown and stippled with freckles. Mikey is acutely aware of how he must look in comparison, pale and drab with his ashen skin and dusty hair in the midst of all the rich, lush color of this world. Its darkness is as blinding as its light, and nothing in it is as blinding as Ray. He's a whole constellation, a million points of light and heat, so bright it almost hurts to look at him.  
  
"Come on," Ray says, taking Mikey's hand and leading him away. "I know a good place for stargazing, it isn't far."  
  
Mikey follows Ray, and they walk in easy, comfortable silence to a small clearing in the trees.  
  
"So, how are things?" Ray says, settling himself on the grass and looking up at Mikey. "Do you want to talk?"  
  
Mikey shakes his head. He feels as if just talking about the underworld drags him back there, bit by bit. When he's here, he dreads going back there. When he's there, he aches to be back here. He can't live like this, one foot in the river and one on the bank. He joins Ray on the ground and stretches out, the grass tickling the back of his neck.  
  
"Fine," says Ray amicably. He lies back beside Mikey, pillowing his head in his hands. They lie side by side in the long grass, listening to the whispering of the breeze and the reedy chorus of the cicadas. The sky is velvety blue-black, sugared with stars, the moon as fat and pale and creamy as a pearl.  
  
"I missed the sky," Mikey murmurs. He knows how it sounds, but it's true. After so many years spent feeling as though he was carrying the whole world on his shoulders, feeling small and insignificant before its uncaring vastness is a strange relief.  
  
Ray huffs a soft laugh and turns his head to look at Mikey, one eyebrow raised. "The sky? Really?"  
  
"Mm." Mikey doesn't back down or laugh it off.  "I like feeling small. It's a nice change."  
  
Ray looks surprised, but he doesn't scoff or tell Mikey that he's being ridiculous. "That makes sense," he says, and it's Mikey's turn to be surprised. But then, Ray understands all kinds of things Mikey never thought anyone else ever would, so maybe it isn't that surprising after all.  
  
"And I missed you," Mikey admits, and it's stupid, so stupid, but it's easier to say it in the dark.  
  
"Good," says Ray, and then catches himself. Mikey imagines the pretty flush in his cheeks, and smiles to himself. "I don't--not _good_ , but... I'm glad it's not just me. I missed you too."  
  
Mikey smiles to himself and draws a long, slow breath. Summer fills his lungs, going to his head like wine. He could lie here forever, forget that he was ever called Hades, dream away all he is until the mortals forget him and he is unmade again.

 

 

 

**JULY**  
**Ray**

 

Mikey visits the mortal world more and more often as the summer grows hot and heavy, swelling like a ripe fruit on a branch. He never stays long, but he always comes back. Again and again, he appears in cemeteries and cornfields and forests, and again and again Ray is drawn to him like a moth to a flame. The memories - long, hot afternoons spent with Mikey's hands in his hair, Mikey's mouth on his, Mikey's long legs tangled with Ray's own, Mikey's eyes dark and lazy and his pale face flushed - linger like a fever dream.  
  
Mikey always seems happy to see him, but it's as if there's a well of sadness sunk right through the center of his very being, plumbing depths that Ray can only guess at. He seems to be holding himself back, as if he doesn't trust himself. It's frustrating. Ray is happy to spend time with him, more than happy, but he often feels like Mikey's thoughts are elsewhere. He's distant, often too wrapped up in his head to hold a conversation, and when Ray dares to ask him anything about the underworld, Mikey flinches as if he's been struck, makes his excuses, and leaves.  
  
Worst of all, though, is the way none of these things make Ray like him any less.

 

 

 

**AUGUST**  
**Mikey**

 

Come August, Mikey walks between the worlds again. The heat is heavy, a solid thing against his skin, and the world is so quiet. The air is thick and eerily still, slow and sticky. It's that dead calm that comes before a summer storm. The earth is soft beneath his feet, rich, deep green moss yielding under his weight. Thunder sounds, deep and heavy, a low, roaring rumble that sounds as if the earth beneath his feet is breaking open. There will be rain soon, he knows, he can taste the storm in the air.  
  
Ray is nowhere to be seen yet, but he probably won't be long. Mikey looks around and sees fields, rough with the stubble of recently harvested crops. A farm, then. Far away, across the fields, he can make out the dark shapes of buildings. He turns, and walks the other way. No farmer should have to look out through his window on a stormy night and see death himself stalking his land. After a moment, he feels the first drops of blood-warm rain on his face. The rain feels wonderful on his skin, nothing like the dead, cold water of the river. It feels alive, each drop kissing his face briefly before falling away. Mikey tilts his head back, spreading his arms wide. He lets it soak his hair, his skin. He wishes it would melt him, make him one with the earth and absolve him of all decisions and responsibilities. He tips his head back, looking up at the mottled, bruised clouds. Lightning cracks the sky, and he counts the seconds – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven – until the next crash of thunder.  
  
And so Death walks abroad in the world of men, barefoot and heartsick, with rain dripping from his hair.  
  
He walks until he comes to a stand of trees, all heavy with fruit, clustered around a little pond. He sits down in the grass, and waits. Soon, he hears footsteps over the drumming of the falling rain, and he glances over his shoulder to see Ray walking towards him. Ray's hair hangs loose around his shoulders, damped down by the rain, and Mikey smiles. In this vast, strange world, Ray is his constant, his touchstone. Ray looks like home.  
  
"Beautiful night," says Ray dryly, sitting down next to Mikey and shaking water out of his eyes.  
  
"Yes," agrees Mikey contentedly, then realizes that Ray is looking at him strangely. "Oh. You didn't mean that, did you?"  
  
"No," says Ray, but he's smiling. "But I can see why you would. I wish... I wish you could spend a whole year here with me. Just so you could watch the seasons change."  
  
Mikey huffs a sigh, frustrated. He wishes he could, too. Every last heartsick bit of him aches to stay here with Ray, to watch the wheel of the year spin slowly around them. "You know I can't."  
  
For a long moment, Ray doesn't say anything at all. "I don't understand why you keep on doing it," he says, eventually.  
  
Mikey blinks water out of his eyes and looks at Ray, wrong-footed. "Keep doing what?" he says.  
  
Ray gestures vaguely at Mikey's entire being. "You know. Hades. The job. It obviously makes you miserable, I don't know why you haven't given up."  
  
"Because if I don't do it, no one else will," Mikey says, suddenly angry. "Because there's no one else to take the job. Because I don't know how long it's going to be before the mortals believe hard enough to make a new Hades. Do you really think I'd still be doing it, if there was another way? Do you think I like being trapped underground with nobody but the dead to talk to?"  
  
Ray waves his protests away. "Of course not. But what if you just... didn't? I mean, what if you stayed here. With me. What would happen?"  
  
"Stop it," says Mikey sharply. He realizes that he's standing, water streaming down his face and dripping from his hair. The rain is all around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of glittering white noise. "You don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"No, I don't," Ray snaps, getting to his feet, "Because you won't tell me anything! You're holding onto this--onto whatever it is you're dragging around with you and you won't tell anyone what made you like this!"  
  
They stare at each other for a long time, nothing between them but the rain.  
  
"You can trust me," Ray says, more gently. "What happened to you, Mikey?"  
  
Mikey's first instinct is an old one, born of centuries of practice: deny, discourage, distract. He opens his mouth, intending to tell Ray that there's no great secret, that he's been listening to gossip and stirring up things that don't concern him, but - it's the strangest thing, but Mikey just can't bring himself to do it. Ray looks hurt and angry, but Mikey sees none of the avid curiosity or false concern that he's seen in other people who have tried to pry the story out of him, gods and men alike.  
  
"Alright," says Mikey, after a long moment. He sits back down, and Ray follows his lead. When he looks into the water, he can see fish moving languidly beneath the surface of the dark water, jewel-bright. Fireflies flicker and flutter around them, golden-green in the gathering dusk. The rain has drenched him through, but he barely notices. Ray is quiet, apparently quite content to wait until Mikey is ready to talk.  
  
Mikey reaches for words and finds none. The story is his, but he's never told it to a soul before.  
  
"I wasn't made for this," he says eventually. He dips his fingers into the water and watches the rippling shapes of the fish circling lazily around them. "I was... there were two of us, born around the same time." He remembers himself and Gerard as they were in those early days, young and golden and quivering with promise. "I was supposed to be the ferryman, he was supposed to be Hades." He stops, choking on his own words.  
  
"But he isn't, and you're not," Ray says, studying Mikey closely.  
  
"No," says Mikey. He pauses, gathering his thoughts. The old scars are still tender. Ray is patient, not pushing or cajoling, just waiting, and Mikey is grateful for it. The night is quiet, just the whisper of the breeze and the chirping of the cicadas. The clouds overhead are livid and bruised, mottled purple and grey-green, heavy and bloated with rain. A tiny world holds it breath.  
  
"He wasn't made right," Mikey says eventually. The words aren't right, aren't quite what he means and he feels like he's telling the story all wrong, but he keeps going. "He was strong but he wasn't... right. Becoming Hades would have killed him. He had too much heart."  
  
Mikey draws a shaky breath and finds, to his surprise, that his throat is tight and his eyelashes are wet. Ray's eyes are so wide Mikey feels like he could fall into them.  
  
"He couldn't do it," Mikey says. The words are tumbling over each other, faster and faster. "I told him not to, but he tried. It nearly unmade him and I couldn't--I couldn't..." his breath catches and it takes him a moment to master himself again. "I couldn't lose him. He was the only thing I had."  
  
"So you offered him a deal," Ray says softly, wonderingly. Ray's hair is dripping, his curls wilting in the rain and plastering themselves to his scalp. Mikey bows his head and feels the water trickling down the nape of his neck. The water glitters all around them and Mikey nods, just once.  
  
"A trade," he says. He feels lighter with every word. Now that he's started he wants to finish, purge himself of all the years of shame and secrets. "Him for me. He would be the ferryman, and I... I would be Hades."  
  
"Oh, Mikey," Ray says, and Mikey flinches away from Ray's sadness and his sympathy. Back then, a little understanding would have been just what Mikey needed. Now, Ray looks like he understands far too much. Mikey closed off the part of himself that still longed to feel the wind on his face, that craved the smell of wood smoke and fresh rain and ached to see the sky. He'd just about had himself convinced that it wasn't so bad, that he didn't need any of it, but here, tonight, his walls are crumbling.  
  
"It isn't the kind of thing you can teach, there was no one to show me what to do," says Mikey softly, staring into the dark water. "They came to me, scared and sad and confused, and I--I tried to help them. It was the best I could do. I just wished I could have done more." He pauses, head bowed and shoulders hunched. "I still do," he says, quiet and guilty, as if he's telling a terrible secret. "It never feels like enough. Never."  
  
When he took the position of Hades he was so young, so newly-made, so desperately afraid of what would happen if he didn't that he forgot to think about what would happen if he did. He devoted himself to it; he's spent so long doing the best he could and hoping that it - that _he_ \- was good enough that he's grown accustomed to the feeling that he could be doing a better job. The insidious feeling of inadequacy has stained him, sunk deep into his bones, become part of his very being.  
  
Mikey feels sick and ashamed. He can't believe he's finally done it, that the secret is out. It won't be long now before everyone knows and he and Gerard are disgraced. Ray hasn't moved, but he's probably trying to think of some way to escape. Mikey doesn't blame him. If he'd had the option of walking away from this whole mess, he would have done it a long time ago.  
  
He takes pity on Ray.  
  
"You can go, if you want," he says. "You don't have to stay." He'll have to go back to the underworld for good, he thinks, so he'll stay until dawn and make the most of the few hours he has left here. He'll walk the earth and see as much of it as he can. The memories he makes tonight will have to get him through--who knows how long? A thousand years? Two? And when the sun comes up again, he'll slink back underground, away from the light.  
  
"Go?" Ray repeats, and Mikey starts. He'd been so lost in his own unhappy thoughts that he'd almost forgotten Ray was there. "Where?"  
  
"Wherever you want," says Mikey, doing his best to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice.  
  
"No," Ray says. "I mean... do you want me to go?"  
  
Mikey knows he should say yes, make it easy for him, but he can't lie to Ray. Instead, he says, "I won't make you stay if you don't want to."  
  
Ray frowns. "Who says I don't want to?"  
  
Mikey flinches. He knows Ray isn't cruel, not by nature, but it hurts. "You don't have to pretend," he says, wretchedly. "I know I'm--"  
  
"Brave," Ray says, cutting him off. He's looking at Mikey is made of gold, as if he's the sun itself. "So, so brave. Kind. Much better than you think you are."  
  
Whatever Mikey was expecting, it wasn't that. "What do you mean?" he says. He's hardly breathing.  
  
"I mean," Ray says, "What you did was... no one else would have done that. No one else could. Can't you see how - how amazing that is?"  
  
Mikey looks hard at him, trying to find some trace of mockery in his expression, but there's nothing. He wants to believe it, wants so badly to be told that he did the right thing that he doesn't dare to believe it.  
  
"Really," Ray says gently. He reaches out and rubs his thumb over Mikey's cheek. Mikey thrills at the touch, leaning into it.  
  
For the first time, he believes.  
  
"And," Ray whispers, and his mouth is by Mikey's ear but Mikey can hear the smile in his voice. "I think there might be a way out. I'll make you a deal."

 

 

 

**SEPTEMBER**  
**Ray**

 

The fever-dream heat of August breaks at last, giving way to a cool, crisp September. The denizens of the underworld are heedless of the slow spinning of the seasons, and the dead continue to trickle into Hades.  
  
Ray stands on the bank of the river and waits for the ferryman, searching for the bobbing lantern in the dark.  
  
"What's taking them so long?" Mikey says, narrowing his eyes as if attempting to divine the presence of the boat through sheer concentration. "It was a simple switch. All he had to do was meet the torchbearer, exchange the souls and come back. I don't trust this new ferryman."  
  
"He's young," Ray reminds him. "He did us a favor, taking a position so early. Anyway, you worry too much," Ray says soothingly, laying one hand on Mikey's arm. "He needs practice, that's all. He's probably still talking to Gerard."  
  
Mikey huffs. "You're probably right. I should never have made Gerard the torchbearer, he's too easily distracted."  
  
"He's doing well enough. He's probably just telling Frank how to navigate this part of the river. He said the currents were difficult."  
  
Mikey doesn't say a word, but he looks calmer, and they both settle in to wait.  
  
They don't have to wait long. A speck of brightness appears in the gloom, casting strange, shivering reflections on the water.  
  
"Hello!" calls a voice, as soon as the boat is within earshot.  
  
"You're late," Mikey calls back, and the figure in the boat doesn't attempt to deny it.  
  
"I know," it says, and when the boat reaches the bank, the diminutive shrouded figure hops out and offers a hand to the boat's only other occupant, a pale, almost transparent man. The man refuses the hand and climbs out, stumbling when he lands and flinching when the river water swallows his feet and ankles. The ferryman shakes his head, takes his passenger firmly by the arm and leads him towards Mikey.  
  
Mikey prepares himself, lining up the words he'll need to explain the underworld to the dead man. Gerard always used to do it during the crossing, but Frank hasn't quite mastered the art of being both convincing and sensitive. His passengers are usually either calm but confused or knowledgeable but noisily upset.  
  
Ray bumps his shoulder against Mikey's and gives him a small smile that makes the bleak riverbank feel warmer. "You can do this," he murmurs, and Mikey feels his tension loosen by degrees. "Just think, every time you do this could be the last."  
  
Mikey chuckles. He used to wonder if he'd ever tire of Ray's optimism, but it hasn't happened yet. "Unlikely," he says. "You know the new Hades isn't ready yet. It could be centuries before she's able to take over."  
  
"Or it could be weeks," Ray says.  
  
Mikey smiles indulgently. He understands Ray's hopes. The sooner the new Hades is ready, the sooner Ray and Mikey can leave the underworld for good and find a nice, quiet place in the mortal world to live out their endless days. Ray could leave at any time, really, Mikey still doesn't understand why he stays. For now, though, this, here - this is plenty. "It could be weeks," he says softly, and for the first time, he believes it.


End file.
